


And We Have Parted Ways

by dairyme



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Coda, Episode: s02e03 The Good Traitor, Gen, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3192020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/pseuds/dairyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-episode, Aramis takes care of Porthos's injury, and tries to avoid a long-overdue conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Have Parted Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little thing, because I really needed some kind of reaction to the events of the episode from the characters, and I'm still kind of hoping the writers provide some in future episodes, but obviously I can't wait that long.
> 
> I've kept it as canon-compliant as I can (without knowing exactly what's coming in the rest of the series). The rating's for some injury description.

Aramis gingerly peeled the strip of fabric from Porthos’s thigh. It was stiffened with dried blood, but still sticky on the underside where the blood had pooled and begun to clot. 

Porthos sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, but kept still. 

Aramis looked up at his face, but quickly dropped his gaze again. “I’m going to have to cut away your clothing,” he said, balling up the bloody fabric and tossing it out of the way, “so I can get to the wound.”

Porthos shrugged, discomfort making the action tight. “Rather lose these trousers than my leg.”

Aramis attempted a weak smile but it barely registered on his face. “I think the trousers are already a lost cause.” He took his knife and carefully slit the material until he was able to pull it away to expose Porthos’s skin. 

The wound began to ooze immediately, fresh red pushing sluggishly through congealed black. Aramis swallowed down a sudden flutter of panic and reached for the clean cloth and bowl of warm water he had already prepared. Porthos shifted on the bed. “Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t watch,” Aramis told him.

“Perhaps it would be better if I had a damn drink.”

Aramis didn’t look at him, concentrating hard on wringing excess water from the cloth. “Athos will be back soon,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.

On getting to the room and, in an unlikely turn of events, finding no alcohol present, Athos had been dispatched immediately to find some. The plan had been to wait until he had returned before attempting to deal with Porthos’s injury, but Aramis had only been able to stand a few minutes of helplessly watching Porthos struggle with his pain before finding the situation unbearable. 

He pressed the cloth as gently as he could around the edges of the wound. From the corner of his eye, he could see Porthos’s fist clench tightly where it lay on the bed. “Talk to me,” he said, wiping away some dried blood softened by the water. “It will take your mind off it.”

Porthos took a few steadying breaths, forcing a regular rhythm in the face of the pain. Then he said, “Why didn’t you shoot him?”

Aramis’s hand froze where it was pressing the cloth to Porthos’s skin. His mind went blank for a brief, crippling moment before he regained his bearings. Then the words came easily, a mantra he had almost managed to convince himself was true. “Tariq was in my line of fire.” 

“No he wasn’t.”

Aramis’s chest tightened, as if all the air had been squeezed from his lungs. He glanced up. Porthos wasn’t looking at him, as he had expected; he was looking towards the window instead. His expression was pinched, and Aramis couldn’t tell if it was his injury or the conversation that was the cause. “I’m sorry, Porthos,” he said, forcing his hand to move across bloodied skin. “There was nothing I could do.”

“We kept back, so you’d have time to make the shot.” There was no obvious accusation in his voice, only the gritted edge of pain, but Aramis felt the sting of it all the same. “I’ve seen you make hundreds like it.”

Aramis sat back, pushing the cloth into the bowl and scrubbing it vigorously clean. “There was nothing I could do,” he insisted, defensiveness slipping into his tone. “It was poor luck.”

Porthos huffed dismissively. “Poor luck has never stopped you hitting a target as long as I’ve known you.”

Aramis threw the cloth into the bowl with sudden force, sloshing water onto the blankets. “I’m not infallible, Porthos!”

Porthos didn’t say anything to that, and Aramis didn’t dare look up at him, so they sat in heavy silence while Aramis took up a clean strip of cloth and pressed it over the wound. Fresh spots of blood were soon soaking through. Aramis could feel them dotting his palm. 

Porthos had tensed at the initial pressure, but had given no other reaction. When he did eventually break the silence, his voice was quiet and strained. “So tell me the truth.”

The _truth_. Aramis could practically feel the truth clawing its way up his throat, could feel it choking him as he tried to force it back down. The warmth of Porthos’s too-hot skin soaked through the inadequate dressing along with his blood. “I…was distracted.” He took a sharp breath, almost a gasp, against a sudden wave of guilt. “It was my fault, and I am truly sorry for it.”

“Aramis.” Porthos reached forward and lay his hand over Aramis’s where it still covered the wound. 

Countless times before the same gesture had provided welcome comfort, but now Aramis felt oddly smothered by it, and it took all his willpower not to pull away. 

“You’ve been distracted for months.” His voice was quiet still, but not soft. Again Aramis searched for the accusation and failed to find it, but there was irritation there, maybe even suspicion. 

He had known this conversation was coming, but instead of planning for it he had ignored it, avoided it at every turn, and avoided Porthos in the process. It was foolish to believe he could do so forever, but he had believed it anyway.

“I’ve never asked you to tell me things you didn’t want to,” said Porthos, his hand heavy on Aramis’s. “I promised you that.”

Aramis nodded stiffly and managed, just about, to keep his voice from cracking. “You did.”

“But whatever it is, you have to…” He sighed frustratedly, releasing Aramis’s hand and leaning back. “People died.”

 _You nearly died_ , Aramis thought, no longer able to hold the terror of it at bay. _Because of my weakness_. He imagined the arrow hitting Porthos in the chest, he imagined the wound in his leg festering, beyond his ability to fix; he imagined Porthos hating him; he imagined him, Athos, d’Artagnan, all of them, dead at his hand. _Everyone I love…_

“At the convent,” he said. His heart was already racing with fear, and he was sure his whole body must be trembling with it, but when he looked at his hand it was perfectly still. 

“Last year?” Porthos frowned, uncertain at his guess. “When we were with the Queen?”

Aramis nodded. It was suffocating him, but if he could just let it out, he would be able to breathe. “Someone died. Someone I knew.” The threat of tears blurred his vision for a moment at the memory, but he blinked it away. “She…” He paused, breathed. “I was…”

The door opened and Athos strode into the room, slightly out of breath. “Are you all right?” He was looking at Porthos, concerned.

Porthos let his gaze linger on Aramis, but when it was clear he would not be continuing, turned to Athos. “I’ll be better when you hand me that,” he said, reaching out towards him.

Athos handed him the bottle he was carrying, which Porthos immediately opened. 

“Bad?” Athos leaned over to look at Porthos’s wound, though Aramis’s hand still covered it.

Aramis cleared his throat, his movements becoming efficient as he lifted the dressing and indicated Porthos should hand him the bottle. “I didn’t want to wait.” He could feel Athos’s stare, and eventually looked up at him. “But he’ll be fine.” He smiled thinly, though judging from Athos’s reaction it had not been altogether convincing. “It'll be fine.”


End file.
